


Bloom

by Aisalynn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has some issues, Fluff, M/M, a liiiitle bit of praise kink, but nothing explicit, expressions of trauma through gardening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisalynn/pseuds/Aisalynn
Summary: “Well, you are an ambitious gardener aren’t you?”Crowley raised his eyebrows at the woman.She nodded down at the plant he had placed on the counter. “Not an easy one to take care of.” She took out a pair of scissors and cut the ribbon around the pot, typing the price attached into the computer. “They require near perfect conditions. And they rarely bloom.”A full, toothy smile spread its way across the demon’s face. For the first time since he came into the shop the woman fell silent, an uneasy expression taking over her face as she looked up at his. It was not a nice smile.“Oh,” Crowley purred, “it will bloom for me.”





	Bloom

Crowley bought his plants from department and chain stores. He liked department stores. He even took credit for inventing them once. There was something perfectly human about department stores, being both incredibly convenient and incredibly _ inconvenient _ at the same time.

Crowley liked to stand amongst the sad and wilting plants sitting under too harsh lights in their too small pots, leaves bruised and broken from too many sticky and curious fingers reaching out to fondle them and pick one of the least damaged ones out. A dull eyed teenager would ring him up and he would take said plant back to the sunroom in his flat where there was plenty of natural light streaming in from the big windows, the cheapest, most efficient plant mister on the market and Crowley’s own special form of _ encouragement. _

Today, however, he found himself stepping into a small, local garden center that caught his eye as he was walking past. The plants were varied, well watered, arranged so they all got the appropriate amount of sunlight, and worst of all, lovingly taken care of by the very enthusiastic owner, who chattered non-stop at Crowley from the moment he stepped in off the street until he was standing at the till, purchase in hand.

“Well, you are an ambitious gardener aren’t you?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at the woman. 

She nodded down at the plant he had placed on the counter. “Not an easy one to take care of.” She took out a pair of scissors and cut the ribbon around the pot, typing the price attached into the computer. “They require near perfect conditions. And they rarely bloom.”

A full, toothy smile spread its way across the demon’s face. For the first time since he came into the shop the woman fell silent, an uneasy expression taking over her face as she looked up at his. It was not a nice smile. 

“Oh,” Crowley purred, “it will bloom for me.”

\--

Aziraphale, as usual, was seated in his armchair, book open across his lap when Crowley got back to the flat. The armchair was plush, with a well worn tartan pattern that clashed horribly with the stark stone walls of Crowley’s flat. It had appeared mysteriously after the angel had mentioned several times how uncomfortable he found the chair in front of Crowley’s desk to sit in for extended periods of time. Crowley had deliberately ignored the beaming smile of thanks the angel aimed toward him for days after. 

“Hello, dear,” the angel chimed cheerfully from the chair as Crowley walked past him. “That’s a lovely one.”

“Not yet,” he called back through the open doorway to the sunroom. If it were possible for plants to hold their breath, the plants in that room would have as Crowley stalked through them to the window. He placed the small pot down in a conspicuously empty spot on the table. “But it will be.” 

He took a few deliberate steps back until he was standing in the center of the room. The plants, of course, did not breathe, but as he slowly, menacingly dragged his gaze across them they actually stopped photosynthesising for a brief, terrified moment. He didn’t bother to say a word, instead turning on his heel to walk out of the room. The plants, after all, knew what was expected of them. 

Except for the new one, but Crowley preferred it that way. Scaring the plants into doing exactly what he wanted always started out better if they had no idea what it was he wanted to begin with.

  
\--

Technically, garbage disposals were not built to destroy plants. If anyone else tried to shove a house plant down the drain—soil and all—and turn on the disposal, said disposal would most likely immediately break.

Crowley’s garbage disposal wouldn’t dare.

Perhaps, Crowley thought as he surveyed the mess in his sink, he should have just thrown the plant out the window. It would be less mess. He knew, however, how the threat of punishment was more effective if left to the imagination, so chucking plants out the window in the sunroom was out of the question and the disposal made such a wonderful, dreadful noise that echoed through the hallway to the sunroom, and therefore to the plants in it. 

With a careless snap the mess was clean, and he made his way back down the hall, stopping to pointedly drop the now empty pot next to the small, troublesome plant that had inspired this round of destruction in the first place. 

The plant trembled.

“That’s the third one this month,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley stepped out of the sunroom. His voice was carefully neutral. Crowley glared balefully at him anyway. 

“Blasted plant won’t bloom.” He threw himself onto his desk chair, turning to the side so he could hang his legs off the armrest. The hard wood of the opposite arm rest dug painfully into his spine but with an irritated thought the wood softened, became more comfortable. 

The angel gave a soft hum from his armchair on the other side of the desk as he turned the page of his book. 

“It needs to learn that there are consequences to it’s actions,” Crowley said defensively. “Or, inaction in this case.”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “You are too hard on yourself.”

Crowley stared at him. “On the _ plants. _”

“Hm?”

“On the plants, you mean. I am too hard on the _ plants.” _

“Oh, yes.” The angel didn’t look up from his book. “Of course.”

Crowley continued to stare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the angel didn’t say anything more on the subject. After a while Crowley finally shifted his gaze away, and his eyes caught on a bit of dirt from the plant trapped under his fingernails.

He frowned. 

The dirt disappeared, leaving his nails once again perfectly clean. Crowley slumped further into the chair so he could lean his head back against the armrest. 

Much better.

\--

The evening of the Apocolypse-that-Wasn’t Crowley invited the angel to stay at his place. Aziraphale accepted the invitation, and when it was revealed that reality changed and that the bookshop had not actually burned down he still showed up at Crowley’s flat that night. And the night after that. And the night after. 

It had been over a year since Adam and the Them had stopped the imminent destruction of humanity in its tracks, and with the exception of a few nights where he got so caught up in a book at his shop that he lost track of time, Aziraphale had spent every night since at Crowley’s flat. 

Which meant, of course, that Crowley’s flat was now filled with books. 

First, they were stacked on top of the desk. Then there were stacks around the armchair. Then the kitchen counter, then they filled up the corners of the rooms until Crowley got so fed up he miracled up several bookshelves to line the walls of his study. Crowley ignored the flush that crept up the back of his neck at the angel’s grateful praise when he saw them, but when those too filled up, he didn’t hesitate to miracle up a few more until they lined the walls of the sunroom as well. 

Once he had the excuse to, the angel would spend long moments in the sunroom, gently cooing over the plants, praising their vibrant leaves and strong stems. When the angel spoke to them it seemed they would lean toward him, turning away from the sun in order to soak up the angelic light instead. Their long limbs would stretch out across the shelves, gently brushing against the leather binding of Aziraphale’s favorite books. One time Crowley heard the angel chuckle softly when he found their vines wrapped around the volume he had gone to retrieve, and when Crowley leaned the chair on its back legs in order to peer into the room he saw him reach out to gently disentangle them from it’s spine. 

“Ah, Browning,” the angel had murmured, pleased, to the plant. “Excellent choice.”

Crowley clenched his jaw and let the chair fall forward, it’s legs slamming to the floor, but didn’t say anything when the angel came back into the study, the first edition _ Sonnets from the Portuguese _ in his hand. 

The plants had started blooming after the angel spoke to them as well. Where once Crowley’s sun room had been filled with shades of green, it was now a riot of color. All the plants, even the ones that weren’t supposed to _ have _ flowers, blossoming at Aziraphale’s gentle, loving ministrations. 

All that is, except for one. 

\--

“You could always miracle it,” Aziraphale suggested helpfully. He peered over Crowley’s shoulder to the little plant that was currently quivering under the pressure of the demon’s scowl. 

Crowley shifted his shoulder irritably and the angel stepped away, choosing instead to go back to arranging the bookcase by the window. 

He _ could _ miracle it. Of course he could. With a mere thought the plant would suddenly be sporting the most beautiful of flowers. He could hold it out to Aziraphale and the angel would tell him it was lovely, and of course it would be. 

It would also be cheating. 

Crowley never had to miracle his plants into growing well. He would just give them some threatening looks, a few choice words, and a reminder or two of what exactly happens when they _ didn’t _, and then he had the most vibrant and lush houseplant collection in London. 

It didn’t work with this plant. 

Oh, it shook when he threatened it. It stood straight and tall and its leaves were green and perfectly shaped and unmarred by spots. 

But it wouldn’t bloom.

\--

Aziraphale didn’t sleep, but he still spent many nights in the comfort of Crowley’s king size bed. Moonlight would stream down from the skylight above as he pressed himself against Crowley, wrapping his arms tight around the demon, twining his fingers through his hair. 

_ My dear, _ he would whisper. And _ darling _ , and _ my love. Beautiful, _ and _ lovely _ and _ good, so so good. _

He would press the words against Crowley’s skin, open mouth hot against his shivering form until Crowley couldn’t stand it. Until he shook and thrashed, the words filling him with heat, so hot it was almost like Falling all over again. 

He would close his eyes against it until a firm voice told him not to and he would force himself to snap them open, staring up and through the skylight to the night sky beyond, the multitude of stars bright and vibrant despite the light pollution from the city. An angelic voice murmured praise into his ear and hot tears spilled from his eyes as the heavens shone above him, framed by two white, ethereal wings.

\--

“You know,” Aziraphale said conversationally on the second anniversary of the Almost Apocalypse, “I have been thinking recently about what you said that night at the bus stop. About this being the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan all along.”

They were both sitting on the comfortable settee Aziraphale had miracled into the room one day several months ago, facing the window. The angel had his hands wrapped around his favorite cocoa mug, never one to let the summer heat get in the way of his sweet tooth. The heat made Crowley lazy however, and he didn’t bother doing more than make an inquisitive noise from where he was slouched against the opposite arm rest. 

“If that were the case then everything had to be part of that plan, to lead us to the airfield that day.” 

Crowley made another noise to show he was listening but didn’t comment. He didn’t particularly like to think about God’s Plan. Not anymore. 

“_ Everything _,” Aziraphale stressed. His tone finally made Crowley sit up a little, lifting his head from its indolent roll against the cushion in order to peer at the angel questioningly. 

“You,” he told Crowley seriously. “Your questions, your...Fall.”

Crowley stilled, the languid warmth that had been relaxing turning immediately into a hot streak of energy, tensing every muscle. 

“Think about it,” the angel continued, his words picking up speed as he grew more excited by the subject. “If you hadn’t been in the Garden, if you hadn’t tempted Eve and given them the knowledge to know right from wrong, the ability to _ choose _ one or the other, then Adam wouldn’t have been able to stop it. He wouldn’t have been able to make the _ choice _.”

Crowley swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling tight. The stomach of his mortal form churned. 

“I—” He looked helplessly at the angel’s excited, expectant face. “I don’t particularly like the idea that I had to Fall in order to serve Her Plan.”

The words had to be forced out. Even now, after more than six millennia as a demon, after successfully stopping the Apocalypse from happening, it still felt Wrong to say anything that could be considered a criticism of the Almighty’s Will. 

The angel’s expression sobered at his words. “But don’t you realize?” he asked Crowley softly, kindly. “We were given that gift as well. The ability to choose. We’re like them, now.” He gestured at the window and the bit of the world that could be glimpsed through its glass. “The humans. We don’t belong to either Heaven or Hell anymore. We belong here, with them. Isn’t that, well, _ better? _”

Better. Better than being connected to, being filled _ with _ the Eternal Light and Glory of the Almighty. Better than having Her song fill his celestial throat as he sang Her praises. Better than the knowing, the _ Certainty _ that everything you did was Good and Right and in the Name of the one who created you.

For a moment a white hot rage filled him, and ugly words threatened to spill out, sharp and bitter in the back of his throat.

Then his gaze caught on the hopeful expression on his angel’s face, and then trailed over to the bookshelf behind him. The late morning light revealed dust particles dancing in its beams, and a fine layer of it had spread across the shelf. 

Before the angel moved in, Crowley never had dust in is flat. He wouldn’t stand for it. The angel’s never ending supply of books, however, seemed to collect it. The plants in the room didn’t seem to mind. Where once they stood up perfectly straight, their leaves and vines tame and controlled, now they sprawled out. Their leaves were as green and lush as ever, but now their vibrant blooms tumbled over their pots, clumsy and wild and more alive than they ever had been with Crowley’s attention alone. It reminded him less of a sunroom with some very well tended house plants, and more of a garden.

“_Yes,” _he finally rasped out. “Better.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, and reached out to pat his knee. The sunlight through the window grew brighter with the smile, and the plants, ever receptive, leaned closer, not to the light, but the angel. 

“Come now, dear boy.” Aziraphale stood. “We better get a wiggle on. It’s Adam’s birthday party this afternoon. Mustn't be late.”

As he stood Aziraphale reached out, absentmindedly running one finger along a leaf of the small, stubborn plant Crowley had bought a year ago. Crowley swore that its little body shivered at the angel’s touch. 

“Be out in a moment,” Crowley muttered, eyes locked on the plant, brow furrowed. 

Slowly, he stood up until he loomed over the little plant. Then, darting a self-conscious look Above, he bent forward until he was so close his breath ghosted over its leaves.

_ “Good plant,” _he whispered.

The surrounding plants, again, would have held their breath if they could, but this time for a very different reason. 

Nothing else happened.

Abruptly feeling very foolish, Crowley straightened up, and hurried from the room.

\--

Several days later he was back in the sunroom, misting the plants because despite the angel spoiling them rotten with praise they still needed _ water _ and _ fertilizer _ and _ proper temperature control _ in order to survive, and Crowley knew that even if Aziraphale never bothered with it. He had finished with the large ferns in the corner and was passing the window in order to check on the Azaleas that had taken over the philosophy shelf when he paused, something new catching his eye.

The hand gripping the mister fell to his side as he stared at the small plant that had been plaguing him since he brought it home. 

Crowley took a slow step toward the table it rested on and reached out one hand. His fingertips delicately brushed across the single, red flower it had bloomed.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say on hi on my tumblr!](https://aisalynn.tumblr.com/)


End file.
